Lady Helen and the Dark Days Pact

by Alison Goodman

  ‘At last,’ Helen echoed. ‘Would you not like to wash before we talk? Let me send for my maid.’

  ‘No!’ Delia half rose from the chair. ‘I do not want to wash. I just want the truth.’

  ‘Of course,’ Helen said, dropping her hand from the bell-pull.

  Delia perched on the edge of the seat. ‘Forgive me. I have been waiting to hear it for so long.’ The bonnet’s straw brim buckled under her grip.

  ‘I do want to tell you,’ Helen said, feeling the weight of her oath thundering towards her like a runaway coach. ‘But things have changed.’

  ‘Changed? How?’

  Helen hesitated. Whichever way she tried to frame an answer, some kind of explanation about the Dark Days Club was required. Even why she could not offer an explanation. Not many young girls in their first Season were held to silence by the Home Office. No, all avenues of discussion were blocked. Yet here was Delia, sitting before her and rightfully expecting her to keep her word.

  She took a deep breath. ‘I am so sorry, but I cannot say.’

  There, the words had been spoken. May God forgive her for such a betrayal of her friend’s trust.

  Delia looked up at her, a knit of bewilderment between her brows. ‘Are you funning with me? If you are, it is most cruel.’

  ‘I am not, I swear.’

  ‘Then why can you not say?’

  ‘I am bound to silence by an oath.’

  ‘To whom?’ Delia rose from her chair, her voice shrill. Her bonnet, crushed beyond repair, dropped to the floor. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I cannot.’

  At the edge of her senses, Helen heard the thud of approaching footsteps. A summons from Lady Margaret already?

  ‘Why are you doing this, Helen? Do you want me to be locked away in an asylum?’ Delia stopped, something awful overtaking her indignation. ‘Oh, dear God, I am insane.’ She grabbed Helen’s forearm, her fingers digging hard into the tender flesh. ‘Did you send me letters that promised the truth, or did I imagine them? Did you? Did you send letters?’

  ‘Yes. I sent the letters.’ Helen pulled herself free from the desperate grip. Delia’s eyes were wide, the whites showing like a panicked deer’s. She had to tell her friend something to wipe the ghastly horror from her face. ‘I am bound by an oath to the government, Delia. To His Royal Highness the Prince Regent. On my honour, it is true.’

  The door burst open, wrenching them both around to face the small rigid figure of Lady Margaret on the threshold.

  ‘Lady Helen!’ There was no mistaking her fury; her voice shook with it, and both hands were clenched into fists. ‘Who is this? What is she doing here?’

  ‘Lady Margaret,’ Helen said, clutching at the safe haven of civility, ‘may I present Miss Delia Cransdon.’

  Delia curtseyed. ‘How do you do. Please forgive me for imposing —’

  ‘Lady Helen, come with me, please,’ Lady Margaret said abruptly. ‘Wait here, Miss Cransdon.’

  Helen hurried past Lady Margaret into the passageway. She caught a glimpse of Delia’s pale, set face, then Lady Margaret pulled the door shut, turned on her heel and without a word led the way down the stairs. Helen could feel the rage pounding against the woman’s silence. Her spine was ramrod straight, the artfully arranged black curls swinging with every stiff stride towards the salon. She flung open the door, stood aside as Helen entered, then closed the door with the barest of clicks, the self-control more alarming than if she had slammed it shut.

  She turned, hands on hips, navy eyes brilliant. ‘What have you told her?’

  Helen stepped back. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Liar. I heard you say you had taken the oath.’ Her disgust was distilled into every word. ‘Did you tell her about the Dark Days Club?’

  ‘No. I only said I could not tell her anything because of the oath.’

  ‘Who is she? Why is she here?’

  Helen pressed her hands against her forehead. ‘She is a friend, from my seminary days. Delia Cransdon. She eloped with a man who shot himself in front of her at an inn. Do you remember the scandal?’

  For a moment the fury in Lady Margaret’s eyes shifted into recollection. ‘About two months ago?’

  ‘Yes. I believe the man — no, I am sure the man was a Deceiver. Delia saw him light up from within when he died and passed into his next body. No one believes her story. Her parents think her mad and are going to send her to an asylum. I thought …’ Helen paused. How could she explain the creeping suspicion that somehow it was all her fault, that her friendship with Delia had placed her in the path of a Deceiver? ‘I sent her some letters; I did not want her to think herself mad. I promised to explain why Mr Trent had killed himself and died in such an odd way.’ Helen looked away. ‘I may have hinted that he was not of this world.’

  ‘God’s blood!’ Lady Margaret said. ‘What were you thinking? You have taken an oath —’

  ‘I sent the letters before I had taken the oath,’ Helen protested.

  Lady Margaret batted away the defence with a vicious hand. ‘You knew weeks ago that your membership in the Dark Days Club required secrecy. We cannot have the truth leaking out into the world, yet here you are blithely telling a school friend that you have sworn an oath to the Home Office.’

  ‘That is all I was going to say, I swear upon my soul. Even so, she saw one of the creatures, Lady Margaret. She knows they exist —’

  Helen stopped. She had heard a sound; no more than a hardening of breath. She lunged for the door and jerked it open. Delia jumped back, her body hunched with guilt.

  ‘Good God, she is eavesdropping like some low servant,’ Lady Margaret said.

  Delia lifted her chin. ‘I have had enough of people deciding my future behind closed doors.’

  Helen shook her head. ‘That is no excuse for —’

  ‘What exactly is a Deceiver, Helen?’ Delia looked defiantly at Lady Margaret. ‘What is the Dark Days Club? I demand answers.’

  ‘You do not have the right to demand anything, Miss Cransdon,’ Lady Margaret said. She rounded on Helen. ‘This will not be discussed again until his lordship returns from London. Do you understand? Until that time, Miss Cransdon shall be our guest.’ The last word came through gritted teeth.

  ‘Yes. I understand.’ Helen hesitated, not sure she should add more fuel to Lady Margaret’s fire, but there was no getting away from the fact of Delia’s family. ‘I’m afraid her parents do not know she is here.’

  Lady Margaret made a sound low in her throat, rather like a snarl. ‘She left their house without telling them?’ She shook her head and raised her palms to ward off the answer. ‘Do not even try. I shall write immediately and inform them of the whereabouts of their daughter and extend an invitation for her to stay with us for a few days. Let us hope that they do not arrive on our doorstep, outraged.’ On that, she departed the salon, sweeping past Delia without another glance.

  Helen drew a steadying breath. ‘I cannot believe you listened through the door.’

  Delia flushed. ‘It was reprehensible, I know, but it is the only way I learn anything at home. I am sorry.’

  Helen gave her friend a wan smile. ‘At least you may stay.’

  ‘Until his lordship returns. Who does she mean? Her husband?’

  ‘No. She means Lord Carlston.’

  ‘The one who murdered his wife? What does he have to do with it?’

  ‘Everything,’ Helen said heavily. She was not looking forward to facing his lordship’s fury. ‘You heard Lady Margaret. I cannot discuss any of this until he returns.’

  ‘Surely you can tell me about Mr Trent?’ Delia pleaded. ‘I already know some of it. You said he was a Deceiver — what does that mean?’

  Helen shook her head. The next two days were going to be very long indeed.

  Chapter Five

  SUNDAY, 5 JULY 1812

  Helen jabbed her needle into the linen of her embroidery and forcibly quelled the desire to spring from her chair and run from the drawing room. Del
ia’s arrival two days ago had stopped any Reclaimer training or Dark Days business, and it felt excruciating to be thrust back into the slow rhythm of a lady’s life. The service that morning at the new Chapel Royal had been interminable, and now they were filling the afternoon with needlework and reading. It did not help that the ponderous turn of every minute also held the weight of Lord Carlston’s imminent return. Mr Hammond had gone to meet him at his lodgings and, no doubt, to inform him of the trouble that awaited at German Place.

  Helen looked across at Lady Margaret who was seated at the small table beside the front window, her back straight and pen travelling across paper with fierce purpose. She must have felt Helen’s gaze for she raised her eyes and stared back, her message plain: This is your own fault.

  The previous evening, Geoffrey had arrived back from the Cransdon estate with a note from Mrs Cransdon full of thanks and the intelligence that Delia could stay as long as her ladyship graciously allowed. The note was accompanied by two travelling trunks full of clothes; far more than a few days required. Delia’s parents, it seemed, were eager to be rid of their daughter, whether it was by dumping her upon another household or incarcerating her in a sanatorium. What must she be feeling, Helen wondered, to be so abandoned?

  There was no clue upon Delia’s face. She sat on the opposite sofa, eyes on the open book in her hands, but her sight clearly inwards. Helen did not blame her retreat. Lady Margaret’s cold courtesy and swift check of any remark beyond the banal did not lend itself to vivacity. Lady Margaret was determined to give Helen and Delia no opportunity for private conversation. She had even posted Tulloch outside Delia’s bedchamber door at night.

  Helen returned her attention to her embroidery. She had not been able to speak to Mr Hammond either. He had arrived back from his expedition to Lewes well after everyone had retired for the evening, and emerged late from his room for breakfast. There had been no opportunity for any communication under Lady Margaret’s eye other than a brief, meaningful nod from him across the silent breakfast table. He had found Lowry. The knowledge had settled heavily in her stomach and sat there still; a cold, hard knot of thwarted questions.

  The sound of hooves on flags brought Helen’s head up again. No, what was she thinking? Camelford Street was but one road away; his lordship and Mr Hammond would walk, not ride or take a carriage. Surely it would not be long now before they arrived. While she did not look forward to meeting his lordship’s anger, the waiting for it was beyond endurance. Even with the arguments she had rehearsed on Delia’s behalf, she had little hope of affecting his lordship’s decision. Delia would be sent back to her parents and their plans of a sanatorium. The thought of it chilled Helen to her core.

  It was another half an hour before Lady Margaret straightened in her chair, her regard on the street below. She patted her lips with a fingertip, her other hand finding the back of her coiffure to smooth the braided knot. Helen knew only one person could prompt such unconscious primping.

  ‘Is that his lordship?’ she asked, needing to break the silence as much as warn Delia of the impending arrival.

  ‘It would seem so.’ Lady Margaret bent her head back to her writing, but the high line of her shoulders betrayed her anticipation.

  Delia glanced at Helen, her grey eyes dark with fear. Helen smiled back with as much reassurance as she could muster, and pointedly returned to her embroidery. It was important to remain calm. She drew in a deep breath. Holy heaven, she could barely place the next stitch. So much for calmness.

  She listened, following the procession of footsteps up the staircase: Garner first, then his lordship and Mr Hammond. She threaded her needle through the linen in preparation to put it down.

  A knock sounded.

  Lady Margaret meticulously placed her pen back into its rest and rose from her chair. ‘Yes?’ she called as Helen and Delia stood and readied themselves.

  Garner entered and stepped aside as Lord Carlston and Mr Hammond strode into the room. The two men bowed.

  Helen focused on the impeccable fit of his lordship’s dark blue jacket across his shoulders, the strong line of his neck, the beginning of a curl in his clipped dark hair. As he straightened, she tried to fix her eyes upon the wall behind him, but found her gaze relentlessly pulled back to his face. Lud, it was as if he were the north and her eyes a compass. She braced herself against the inevitable effect of him upon her body. There it was: the little skip within her chest. A response to harmonious symmetry and line, she told herself. Even so, she could feel a deeper pulse within herself; an insistent beat that seemed to reach towards him.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Lady Margaret curtsey, and hurriedly bobbed into her own.

  ‘I hope your journey was not too tiresome, Lord Carlston,’ Lady Margaret said.

  ‘Not at all.’ His expression was at its most unreadable. Not a good sign, but there was no use delaying the inevitable.

  Helen stepped forward. ‘Lord Carlston, may I present my friend, Miss Delia Cransdon.’ She could not keep the defiance from her voice.

  His eyebrows lifted at the tone, but he turned his attention to Delia. ‘Miss Cransdon,’ he said, bowing again.

  ‘Lord Carlston.’ Delia executed a graceful curtsey.

  ‘Would you like a glass of wine, Carlston?’ Lady Margaret asked.

  ‘I thank you, no.’ His attention was once again upon Helen.

  Lady Margaret waved a dismissal to the butler. ‘That will be all, Garner.’

  ‘Mr Hammond,’ Carlston said as the door closed behind the servant, ‘would you please escort your sister and Miss Cransdon to the morning room. I wish to speak to Lady Helen alone.’

  Helen felt all the air leave her body.

  ‘Of course,’ Mr Hammond said. He look anxiously at Helen. ‘My lord, I —’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Hammond,’ Carlston said pleasantly. ‘Leave us now.’

  Silently, Delia and Lady Margaret crossed the room. Helen kept her eyes fixed upon the dusky pink carpet as they passed. She had a fair idea what was in their faces, and right then she did not want to meet Delia’s fear or Lady Margaret’s grim satisfaction. She heard the click of the door open, the creak of the landing as it took three people, and finally the soft thud of the door as it once again shut. Alone with his lordship.

  She took another deep breath and raised her eyes. He had not moved and his face was still impassive. If he was angry, the emotion was under strict control.

  ‘Lord Carlston, allow me to explain. Miss Cransdon was tricked into eloping with a suitor by the name of Trent whom I believe was a Deceiver. The creature shot itself before her and she witnessed the illumination as it passed from its body —’

  ‘I am aware of what Miss Cransdon witnessed,’ he said, cutting her short. ‘They were pursued by Mr Hallifax, the Reclaimer who was tracking that creature, and he has provided me with a full report.’

  ‘Oh.’ Helen took a moment to digest the implications of this knowledge. ‘Did you know that she was my friend at the time?’

  ‘Of course. As soon as I became aware of your abilities, I instructed our Tracers to check the lineage of all the people around you. We had to determine if they could be of a known Deceiver line. Although,’ he tilted his head in wry acknowledgment, ‘we failed to find the Deceiver who infiltrated your house as a footman.’

  ‘Philip,’ Helen said. With a start, she remembered her possible sighting. Should she tell Lord Carlston? Surely Pike’s ban did not cover that information. ‘I thought I saw him on Friday, in the township.’

  ‘Here?’ His lordship frowned.

  ‘I cannot be certain,’ she added quickly. ‘It was but a glimpse and I could not sight him again, although we made a search. It was probably just someone who looked like him.’

  ‘I will make inquiries.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘Philip is definitely one who slipped through our Tracer net. Nevertheless, our people are as thorough as possible with the limited registers that we have in our archives. We checked everyone
around you against that information, including Miss Cransdon.’

  ‘Everyone?’ That little demon of defiance made her add, ‘Even the Duke of Selburn? I know he is here in Brighton too.’

  His jaw tightened, but he did not rise to her jibe. ‘Yes, we even checked the Duke of Selburn.’

  ‘And did you find anything?’

  ‘No one is of a Deceiver line that we can detect.’

  ‘But what if Delia had been a Deceiver?’

  ‘That would make it a great deal simpler. She would be dispatched.’

  ‘You mean killed, don’t you?’ Helen stared at him. ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Just like that,’ he repeated. ‘There could be only two reasons for a Deceiver to work its way into your life: to harm you or to gather information about the Dark Days Club.’ He walked to the window and looked out to the street, his profile a sharp-edged silhouette against the light. ‘Mr Hammond informs me that you wrote a letter to Miss Cransdon that promised the truth about the Deceivers.’

  ‘I did.’ Helen squared her shoulders. ‘But that was before I took my oath before Mr Pike.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Pike.’ His tone was flat. ‘I believe you met Mr Stokes as well.’

  He abandoned the window and crossed to the hearth. She turned to face him again.

  ‘Yes, I did.’ She waited, but he did not reply. The silence felt accusatory. ‘I kept my oath, Lord Carlston,’ she added sharply. ‘I did not tell Delia anything. I hope Mr Hammond made that clear.’

  ‘He told me that Miss Cransdon has a penchant for listening at doors.’

  He walked around the sofa. She found herself pivoting again. He was circling her, like some predatory beast.

  ‘It was not well done of Delia, I know, but you must understand that her family is determined to send her to a sanatorium. They tell her nothing about her fate and she must find out through any means.’

  ‘So now she is aware of the existence of the Deceivers and the Dark Days Club.’